


Meanwhile, Back on Earth

by magpiespirit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Appalling Lack of Investigative Work, Boning Yourself With Your Own Plan: The Fic, Crowley Makes His Own Life Hard, F/F, Friendship/Love, Gen, Loss, M/M, Miracles, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 08:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20889140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: In the wake of the failed Apocalypse, our protagonists decide to track down Aziraphale's rare tomes that were lost, using a front — Ezra Fell and AJ Crowley, P.I. — that works out a little too well on paper. When their first unwanted client comes knocking, they can't turn her away, because the dear girl has something better than money to offer. She has a book.(Crowley regrets his own idea, but what else is new?)





	1. A Logical Thing to Do (Surely)

It wasn’t until the tenth or eleventh day that Aziraphale fully realized the  _ gravity  _ of the situation. He was properly alone for the first time since Armageddon—Crowley was napping, an activity which the demon had suggested would last at least a week—and he was halfway to his Misprint Bible section to make sure they were properly out of order when he remembered that  _ oh,  _ he didn’t have them anymore. 

Alone, he had to face it:  _ this was not his life. _ He was surrounded by books that he’d never read. First-editions, out-of-print treasures, rarities, yes, but not  _ his  _ books. No more Ursula Shipton. No more  _ Revelation.  _ No more well-preserved first-edition Wildes with the fond inscriptions inside. Centuries of research and work and dedication, gone. Finished. Done with.  _ Kaput.  _ Without the treasures he’d so fiercely and lovingly protected, what was the point of the symbols above the door, the byzantine organization, the  _ shop itself?  _ Why not just sell the lot and be done with it all?

He was not the type to be dramatic, all lamentations and gnashing of teeth, but at the realization, he dropped to his knees and it was—

A  _ complete fucking breakdown,  _ was Crowley’s initial diagnosis. He was only a medical professional by virtue of having watched every medical drama conceived and shared some dreadful conversation with Paracelsus, but he felt pretty confident in his credentials as an Aziraphalologist. 

Not that anyone could tell from the outside that Aziraphale was a wreck. All things considered, he was the picture of pleasantness. He was cheerful and kind to his customers, laughing at bad jokes, agreeing to outlandish price negotiations, and pointing out the bright 50% OFF! signs all over the shop, and if his hands trembled a bit, well, his incorporation was in that pleasantly unnoticeable range that could be aged from unfortunate late-thirties to fortunate early-sixties. Plenty of invisible illnesses caused tremors, and it wasn’t in fashion to rudely ask about them these days. He could have low blood sugar. Or be excited.

The point was, Aziraphale looked fine. He was unequivocally  _ not  _ fine. Crowley didn’t depend on Aziraphale, or anything; they were as good or bad alone as they were together; but Aziraphale being fine did wonders for his overall equilibrium, so it was  _ clearly  _ important to nip this whole breakdown business in the bud and help find a solution to whatever had sent the angel into this fit...thing.

Right.

“So sorry,” he shouted insincerely with a clap of his hands. His voice commanded that everyone in the shop listen to him. It wouldn’t work on an occult entity like an angel (he refused to acknowledge that  _ ethereal  _ nonsense), but it would work on humans. “We’re closing early. Problems with electric...stuff. Very scary.” He made the lights flicker. “You’re all better off leaving now.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that could, if properly directed, cut diamonds. Crowley was not a diamond, so it did nothing. Crowley’s command didn’t  _ affect  _ Aziraphale, but the angel couldn’t cancel it without significant Divine effort on his part, which would confuse the customers and probably drive them out anyway. Besides, Crowley suspected that Aziraphale didn’t actually like customers any more now than he had previously. He was just...allowing them to buy things...for some reason.

When the last glassy-eyed humans trickled out the door, Crowley locked it behind them and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and the angel burst out, “What did you think you were  _ doing,  _ Crowley?”

“Saving you from yourself,” he snipped, turning around on the ball of his foot, a loaded answer to a stupid question. Aziraphale hadn’t moved from his position, frozen behind the sales counter. Usually by now he’d be up in Crowley’s face, or face-adjacent space at a respectable distance just this side of polite, which was another checked box on the List of Reasons to Suspect Aziraphale Was Definitely Not Fine. And was that a lime green bowtie? Oh, Satan—God— _ sweet Sally,  _ this was intervention-level not-fine-ness. Crowley stepped forward exactly three steps, giving Aziraphale time to do anything (which he didn’t), and added, “You don’t sell books, angel.”

“I don’t sell  _ my  _ books. These aren’t  _ mine,”  _ said Aziraphale sourly, gesturing grandly at the shelves, which were far more neatly organized than when Crowley had last seen them five...maybe six weeks prior? Had it been that long? It was hard to tell when you could sleep through an entire century. 

“They are. Look, you’ve got your stupid Wildes-”

“A convincing forgery.” Oh, there came the aggression, lovely. Crowley fought to not roll his eyes when Aziraphale finally stepped away from the register and began to pace irritably. Even his aggression was passive; Crowley had learned over the course of their acquaintanceship that this was largely by design. Nothing like flaming-sword imagery to sour a first impression. “The best of them are gone, and the ones that stayed...nothing more than copies from the mind of a child! I don’t blame him, of course, Adam didn’t ask to be born, and he probably didn’t even consider the consequences of restoring every apocalyptically-broken thing to the best of his ability. But it’s not real, Crowley. I spent  _ centuries  _ tracking down—and they all—I can’t—I won’t have it. I won’t stand for it.”

Oh.

All right, then.

He couldn’t call himself the smartest demon in existence, but he was no slouch, and he was quicker on the uptake than most everybody gave him credit for. This was the other side. Crowley had, in fact, jerked himself awake two days ahead of schedule to avoid particularly vivid imagery of an inexplicable fire in an empty bookshop, but he hadn’t considered the effect this might have on Aziraphale. Books, to Crowley, were just books. They were things; they would crumble with time, no matter how well-preserved. They were just receptacles for the lurid fantasies of whatever person decided to put their pen to paper (or fingers to keys, as tended to be the case in the modern age). After six thousand years, you got tired of hearing the same story over and over again, and no matter how compelling the new emotional baggage might be, or how evocative the new prose, it meant very little. But to Aziraphale…

It wasn’t even about the books, was it?

“I’m sorry you’ve lost them,” he said in a moment of clarity that he immediately regretted. 

“Page eight,” the angel replied, whirling around. He stalked to the window and sulked inefficiently. Crowley weighed the pros and cons of giving him sulking tips, decided against it, and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Aziraphale to finish his thought. “Michel was a silly fool, but  _ oh,  _ when we got to talking about ciphers and stars and  _ wandwork... _ and I’ll never read that page again.”

“Not like his almanacs are out of print,” he offered, even though he knew it wouldn’t help.

“Yes, but there was a smudge on page eight…”

And it had surely been signed. Crowley knew that Aziraphale had struck up friendships with writers and prophets and occultists over the millennia.  _ That  _ was the value, wasn’t it? Crowley didn’t do mortal ties, but Aziraphale even called himself after the Scribe. The shop was a big project, a life’s work, so to speak, but it was also—well, a cemetery. All his old friends, laid to rest on dusty shelves.

“I’m sure that  _ some  _ of them exist still.” He crept over to Aziraphale and stood solidly behind him. The angel didn’t look at him, but his body did open up a little. Heartened, Crowley continued, “In one form or other, some of your lost books exist, even if you can’t go back and get signatures again. You spent a long time collecting treasures. Could start over, if you wanted to. Or not. You could do something else.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully. If Crowley had known what he was getting himself into…

...Let’s not pretend he would have made a different decision. It was for  _ Aziraphale, _ after all. But he might have said “only kidding” and put up a token protest just in case he had to say “I told you so” later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the show, Aziraphale's collection was more or less completely rebuilt. It...didn't really sit right with me (even though I accept it as canon for the purpose of fanfic most of the time). Aziraphale put his heart and soul into tracking down these books, getting certain ones signed, even cultivating friendships with these people ("To myne olde friend Azerafel, with Beste wishes"). Reimagined, it's not the same. None of those books are real. I said in an earlier fic that it's like looking at a reconstructed body after a car crash: yeah, it looks right, but it isn't your aunt's face, it's an art project the mortician did on commission.


	2. The Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley accidentally get a case. The client in question has a witch problem. More specifically, her witch partner has gone missing. More _more_ specifically, the witch has been kidnapped, probably by occult forces, which makes this an occult problem only a handful of entities are equipped to solve.

The selling frenzy at A.Z. Fell & Co. was over, thank whoever. Crowley was happy to note that Aziraphale had kept _ some _books: the ones that were real according to legend, but hadn’t existed until Adam had imagined them into existence, were still on the shelves behind a big wooden desk that held the angel’s old computer.

It, and the IN/OUT baskets, were almost entirely for show. Neither of them had any intention of using their private investigator business as more than a front for their actual goal, but they needed _ some _kind of public face for their cards. Business cards lent a certain legitimacy to any transaction; Anthony J. Crowley and Ezra Fell were always where they happened to go on Real Business for Real Business Purposes. It said so on their slick black cards in white calligraphed lettering.

They probably should have expected a client to walk in sooner or later, but that particular Thursday, Aziraphale and Crowley blinked blearily over a couple of empty bottles at a young girl whose nigh-angelic face—big brown eyes set against lovely olive skin framed by black flyaway curls—suggested early-20’s...and whose aura suggested the angel might want to reach for a smiting tool. 

Aziraphale gripped a letter opener under the table, the only weapon they had in the former bookshop at the moment, and Crowley hoped nobody did anything stupid.

“Hello, you must be Crowley,” said the girl to Aziraphale. Her voice was pleasant enough, but it set Crowley on edge. Her jeans were loose enough that she could be hiding something unpleasant in them, and so was her hooded sweatshirt. It was violently orange with a unicorn on it. That was suspicious enough on its own. Aziraphale had once postulated that unicorns were agents of Hell, and Crowley wasn’t actually certain that was wrong.

“Yes, _ I’m _Crowley,” said Aziraphale with a somewhat manic smile. “You can tell because I don’t look like a demon at all.”

“Yes! Exactly! I keep telling Mary that—Mary, she’s my girlfriend—dress like everybody expects a demon to dress and you’ll only get noticed, but if you look like everybody else, nobody immediately distrusts you. Someone as smart as you, who’s been on Earth as long as you have...oh, wowee, have I heard stories!” The girl started forward and almost tripped over her own unlaced canvas shoes. Holding out her hand to Aziraphale, she said, “I’m Alice. It’s an honor to meet you. Are you really immune to holy water? That’s so cool! And you, _ you _ must be Azalif — Alizfar — _ A-zi-ra-phale. _ Ha, the old stutter, always pops up when I’m nervous... _ two legends... _wowee, what a thrill.”

Aziraphale reached out and grabbed Alice’s hand, as if on autopilot. Crowley looked on, wondering if he’d accidentally slid sideways into some bizarro dimension, or someone had put hallucinogens in that last bottle of whiskey. This was Mesopotamia all over again, except this time it wasn’t his fault. Er. Probably.

“It’s...nice to meet you, my dear,” said Aziraphale faintly. “What brings you to our establishment?”

“Right,” Alice said, sobering and scuffing the toe of one of her shoes on the floor. “You know, my girlfriend, Mary? I mean. You don’t know her, duh, I’m so dumb. I _ mentioned _ her. She’s missing. Like, not the kind of missing where they fake their own death but really they’ve just fucked off to Hell because they’ve been reassigned to the Reception desk, the _ actual _kind of missing. I can’t feel her. I could feel her if she were in Hell or somewhere on Earth, and she does too much black magic to go to Heaven, which means she’s not dead either. Someone has her and they’re hiding her. I thought, who better than two frickin’ legends to help me? I, er, I don’t have much money, but I heard Mr. Fell collects occult books? I have a grimoire. Been in my family for generations. Mother’s side, obviously. I can’t do hedge magic at all, so it’s useless to me. You can have it.”

“Oh,” Crowley realized blearily, “you’re a halfling. That’s why you haven’t been recalled to Hell.”

“Could have been, if my dad thought I was worth anything. I had Mary Thrice-Bind me just in case, anyway. Not even the Dark Council can break that. But I’m not important enough for them to try. None of us halflings are, really. Am I oversharing? Am I talking too much? I am, aren’t I? I’m always doing that. Sorry. So, erm.” She turned to face Crowley and asked, more sweetly than a demon ought to have been able, “Mr. Fell, would you accept the grimoire in exchange? Or do I need to go do some things I’d rather not do and bring you real money?”

“The book will do, provided it is what you say it is,” Aziraphale accepted immediately, fire in his eyes. “Why don’t you tell us about Mary? What does she look like? Who is she? Where did you last see her? Any detail will help.”

Crowley just blinked and blinked and decided not to try to sober up. This entire thing was too weird for words, and he knew that when he woke up, he and Aziraphale would have a good laugh about it. Imagine, someone mixing them up _ again! _ How ridiculous. Clearly only something that could happen in a stupid, alcohol-induced dream.

* * *

In all honesty, Crowley had mostly forgotten halflings existed until Alice had walked into the fake office. Demons weren’t forbidden from mingling with humans, sexually or otherwise; it was considered strange to form relationships with them, but demons—at least, the ones who cared to make the effort—preferred fucking humans, now that they knew how to do it without creating giant monsters. It was cleaner, for one thing, and mandatory department meetings were vastly less awkward without office dalliances. Most demons were like angels, in that they didn’t much like the thought of sex, and most of the demons who _ did _like it were genetically incompatible with humans, so halflings were rare.

Alice seemed fairly well-adjusted, even _ if _ she’d done something as dangerous as Thrice-Bind herself to a witch. That was usually a demon’s worst fear; a binding like that lasted the entirety of the human’s life, and although it was a myth that it couldn’t be broken by the Dark Council—humans always had overestimated their own powers—general consensus in Hell was that if you were stupid enough to let yourself get caught, you deserved whatever happened to you, so instead of getting rescued, you’d just get mocked for the next century or so if you managed to survive. (It had never happened to Crowley; the one time he’d been caught by a coven of demonologists, Aziraphale had showed up and...well. They had all realized they had plenty of responsibilities Anywhere Else, and what was this weird circle? Where were they, anyway? And why, for the rest of their lives, did they have nightmares about a terrifying Being with four heads and four wings, surrounded by circles of some sort holding far, _ far _ too many eyes?)

Unfortunately, _ Alice _ wasn’t a dream. She was very real, and Mary was very missing, and Aziraphale was very keen to get his hands on the grimoire, so it looked like they had their very first client. Crowley was not very happy about it.

“When we set ourselves up as private investigators,” he said churlishly, “I didn’t think we’d have _ clients.” _

Aziraphale, who was wedged against the arm of the ugliest green couch known to humankind, ran a hand through Crowley’s hair absentmindedly. Unfair. That always felt really good, especially when they were like this, just relaxing with Crowley’s head in Aziraphale’s lap. He was supposed to be grumpy, but casual affection always made him less so. The angel, who may or may not have soothed his temper on purpose, replied, “Nor did I. We haven’t invested in advertising. We still have that malice configuration hanging-”

“Those are _ succulents, _angel-”

“Yes, malicious ones that you unloaded on me because they were plotting against your spider plants. They’re usually enough to make humans think twice about entering here...though I suppose they might be a bit of a siren’s song to demons, even a halfing like that absolutely _charming _girl, Alice.” Aziraphale paused, and then added pointedly, “You’re the one who set this whole thing up, Crowley. It looks like you did your job a little too well.”

Crowley was lazy, and would gladly take credit for something he hadn’t done if it meant less work overall, but he took pride in the work he chose to do, whether it was bringing down London’s mobile phone networks or trolling online communities or terrorizing his plants into submission. Maybe he _ had _put a little too much effort into establishing their cover; he’d done the same thing with his human alias and ended up with his phone number in a scam network. 

This was the M25 all over again. He wanted to throw something. It was too much effort, so he didn’t. 

“Wahoo,” he said listlessly.

Aziraphale clicked the walls of his throat against the back of his tongue and dug his fingers in a little more solidly than he usually did. Crowley decided not to point out that it wasn’t an effective chastisement when he _ liked _a thing, or else the angel might not do it again later. “Really, my dear, there’s no need for that attitude. I’ve never gotten my hands on a family grimoire before. Imagine what treasures it has inside! Real magic, Crowley-”

“Who needs magic when you literally have the power of God at your fingertips?”

“Human magic helps, you know. There are some things miracles can’t do—well, no, miracles can do anything, that’s what makes them _ miracles, _ but you wouldn’t believe what human witches have managed to create spells for, and with more finesse. Humans don’t have access to miraculous power, so they have to be more specific with their spells. It’s _ fascinating, _really, what they can do with a few candles and some chalk.”

“Not that I wouldn’t _ love _ to hear you blabber on all night about witches and chalk,” said the demon honestly—Aziraphale could get so animated when he was excited, and Crowley _ loved _to see it—although his tone purposely implied otherwise, “but there aren’t any practicing witch families anymore. They all died out centuries ago. I would know, witches are Hell’s domain. There are a few solo practitioners, but most of them can’t do much more than a veil of protection.”

“Dark witches are in Hell’s purview, but other witches usually end up in Heaven; their rituals call upon angels as spirits and the light in their souls, or on occasion they exchange offerings for magic from the ground; they live ethical lives and-”

“Worship other gods,” Crowley pointed out, swishing his hand against Aziraphale’s ankle. Those stupid argyle socks were ridiculous, and he made a note to shame the angel for them later. “That’s one of their thou-shalt-nots.”

“Yes, technically, but She’ll generally make an exception for humans who worship Her, not in name, but in deed. You know as well as I do that no human religion has it completely right.” Another firmer stroke of his scalp, and a tug at the base of his hair that made him stretch pleasantly. “We’re getting off-track. Alice’s mother’s family was a line of earth-witches, obviously of the lighter variety, else she’d be able to use their spells. This is a one-in-a-million chance. Won’t you help?”

“Course, angel, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. You can’t trust anyone with a catchphrase, and hers is _ wowee.” _

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Aziraphale, but he didn’t sound convinced of his own position. 

Crowley wondered when his life had become a direct-to-VHS sequel scrawled in fifteen-minute increments by a hack with a vague background in technical writing and zero sense of humor. He’d probably been asleep during the changeover and missed the memo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters will be out whenever. Set schedules are for people who can afford them.


End file.
